


Paradise

by Tehri



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Bilbo Baggins & Dís Friendship, Bilbo is practically family, Bilbo/Dís if you squint, Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-12 01:35:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5648932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tehri/pseuds/Tehri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo spent a lot of time mourning the friends that died in the Battle of the Five Armies. When he meets Dís, he gains yet another view of them, as well as a new dear friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paradise

A year had passed since Bilbo Baggins returned to his home in the Shire. He had reclaimed Bag End, managed to regain most of the items sold off during the auction, and had done what he could to repair his damaged reputation. His relatives did what they could to help him, but there was no denying that people saw him as strange nowadays. “Mad Baggins” they called him when they thought he couldn’t hear, and they’d shake their heads and say that he would never be what he once was.

He had lost his reputation as a respectable and easily understood hobbit. And while rumours flew through the Shire that he had instead gained a considerable wealth, gold and silver and jewels brought back from his journey, Bilbo did not feel that he had gained anything at all. Monetary wealth didn’t mean anything – he hadn’t cared for the inheritance when his parents died, and he didn’t care for what reward he had been given by the new king in the faraway Erebor. Gold and silver were poor replacements for everything that had been lost. Even the knowledge that his friends would come and visit him whenever they could was a hollow little joy to him now.

As the days moved slowly, he did what he could to keep up and keep himself occupied. He worked in his garden, he cleaned his smial, he visited family. But only a select few relatives came to knock on the door to Bag End, and Bilbo did not ask why. But he felt so much more alive when he was around others now; he’d relax, he’d feel rejuvenated, and for a while he’d even believe it had all been a terrible dream, until he’d turn his head mid-conversation as though to ask what someone thought who wasn’t there, and the joyful gleam in his eyes would become dulled again.

When he lost his pipe in his home one day, he instinctively called out for Fili and Kili to ask them to return it, only to pause and shake his head, forcefully keeping the tears in his eyes from falling.

When he hummed a song that his dwarven friends had taught him during their journey, he found that he had forgotten a line and turned to ask Thorin if he could repeat it, only to choke back a wounded noise upon the realisation that Thorin wasn’t there.

Fili and Kili would never be there to joke with him anymore, or to dare him to do something stupid. And Thorin would never be there to speak with him again, or to teach him songs that he had never heard before.

When he would tell his younger relatives stories of his journey, he would carefully avoid mentioning Thorin and his nephews. The wound was still too fresh, and he felt certain that even the youngest of his cousins could tell that something inside him was aching. Those of his cousins who were closer to his age would sometimes ask him what had really happened, why he seemed so distant; all he could tell them was that he wasn’t ready to speak of it yet.

Every night he would lie in bed without feeling able to sleep, and he would imagine what things would have been like if everything had turned out different. If Thorin had lived and been crowned King under the Mountain, if Fili and Kili had urged him to stay there, to live in Erebor. He’d imagine Thorin waking up again on the cot in that tent, and he’d imagine himself crying and asking the dwarf to forgive him.

“It was my fault,” he’d say between sobs. “If I hadn’t been a fool and kept the stone, if I hadn’t ignored what it meant to you… Oh, if I hadn’t _found_ it in the first place! It’s my fault, it’s all my fault. Please, Thorin, forgive me! I never meant for anyone to get hurt, I swear! I wanted to _avoid_ a war, not start it!”

Every night he would hear Thorin’s rumbling laughter in his head, and he’d imagine hearing the dwarf say that he was forgiven, sometimes even that he had done the right thing.

Many nights he would shed tears when he remembered that it would never happen.

 

At noon one day in mid-April, during the second year since his homecoming, Bilbo’s attention was drawn from the book he’d been reading by a loud knock at the door. It certainly didn’t sound like the way any of his relatives would knock – they were always so careful, as though they worried they might frighten him. This was the firm knocking of a closed fist on the door, and certainly not a hobbit-sized one. At first he wondered if he ought to simply ignore it, but the longer he sat there in his armchair and hesitated, the louder and more insistent the knocks became. Finally he got up and hurried to the door, wondering if there had been an accident somewhere and someone needed help.

He was entirely unprepared for seeing whom he was sure was Thorin Oakenshield on the doorstep, clad in a dark blue travelling cloak and with a pack slung over his shoulder. The sight was too much for the poor hobbit, who stood there wagging his mouth for a brief moment before squeaking out a “nope” and keeling over on the floor.

When he came to again, he was laying on his back on the sofa and was uncertain as to how he got there. Heavy footsteps were approaching, and he turned his head in the direction of the sound and blinked.

Standing there by his side, with a cup in their hand and an uncertain look on their face, was a dwarf. For a moment he was once again struck by the resemblance to Thorin, until he realised that it truly couldn’t be; though this dwarf kept their beard cropped short as well, they had only allowed it to grow along their jaw and chin. The front of their dark hair had been pulled back over their skull in a thick braid, and the rest of the thick wild mane had bead-adorned braids everywhere, interwoven with thin silver chains, that clacked against each other when they moved. But the face had similar sharp features, and the eyes were just as blue as Bilbo could remember that Thorin’s had been.

“Forgive me,” the dwarf said quietly, and Bilbo was surprised to notice that the voice, though deep, was distinctly female. “I had not meant to startle you, master Baggins.”

She carefully helped the hobbit to sit up, and Bilbo took the cup of water with shaking hands.

“I just… You just looked so much like someone I knew,” he blurted out nervously. “I almost thought you were…”

The dwarf smiled faintly and shook her head.

“My name is Dís,” she said. “Daughter of Thráin, and mother of your companions Fili and Kili.”

Bilbo very nearly choked on a sip of water. He’d heard quite a few stories from his companions about the lady Dís, Thorin’s youngest sibling and quite possibly the only person in Middle Earth who could actually scare him. Even Fili and Kili, who never took much seriously, would obey her without question.

“L-lady Dís,” he stuttered. “My apologies, I didn’t realise-“

“I just saw you faint because you thought you saw my brother on your doorstep,” Dís interrupted, raising an eyebrow. “Please do not stand on ceremony with me. I am merely a guest in your home, a relative of your friends.” She gave a wry smile and shrugged. “In other circumstances, I suppose I would say that it is nice to see my reputation precedes me.”

“As mine seems to,” Bilbo said hesitantly. “Might I ask what brings you here?”

“Erebor is being rebuilt,” she said. “The dwarves of Ered Luin have started their journey there. I simply wished to take a different route, to meet the hobbit my cousins spoke so highly of in their messages to me.”

So started one of the more confusing afternoons in Bilbo’s life. Dís was very polite, and seemed to know most of the story already, but she asked for Bilbo’s version of each event in the quest for Erebor. She listened intently, and Bilbo felt more than once like he was somehow being judged based on what he said or didn’t say. He avoided speaking much of her brother and her sons, never more than mentioning them in passing if they had a significant role in the story, and he avoided mentioning the Arkenstone-incident. But once the story was done, Dís started to ask questions. She asked about every step on the journey, asked how her family had behaved, and how they had treated him. Bilbo gave as vague an answer as possible every time, desperately hoping to avoid something more and slowly realising that she would not relent.

“Why are you asking me all of this?” he finally said, staring down at his hands. “Why do you feel the need to interrogate me when I clearly have no wish to speak of this?”

“You travelled with them,” she answered softly. “And you didn’t know them before. It is nice to see what you make of them.” She took a deep breath, as though to steel herself. “And Balin told me that you were with my brother in his last moments. The only one besides Gandalf to be so.”

Bilbo swore under his breath. He had hoped that the others wouldn’t mention that particular part of the story; it wasn’t something he was fond of remembering.

“That’s true,” he muttered. “I was.”

“Would you tell me why?” Dís reached out and placed one hand over Bilbo’s, giving him a careful smile when he looked up. “Balin was not quite so forthcoming in his message… Why did Thorin ask for you, and not for any of his kin? Why not his cousins?”

Bilbo felt at a loss for words. He had never thought that he would need to explain this particular part to anyone, much less someone who had known Thorin their entire life. How would he explain everything that had happened? How he had found and kept the Arkenstone, foolishly hoping in some distant greedy corner of his mind that he might not need to tell anyone that he had it, how Thorin had become more and more desperate to find it… And how he, Bilbo, had given the precious stone away to the very people attempting to force Thorin to give them the treasure he had fought for.

“It’s a difficult story,” he said slowly. “I don’t know if… I’m not certain I can tell you everything properly.”

“Try,” Dís said gently, giving his hand a squeeze. “Take your time.”

There was no other choice than to start talking. Very slowly, stuttering and hesitating, Bilbo told the entire story. He told her how Thorin had first seen him, how their regard for each other had grown on the journey. He told her how Fili and Kili had simply decided that he was their friend and how they had looked after him when he didn’t know what he was doing. He told the story of how the Battle of the Five Armies had come to happen, how foolish he had been and how angry Thorin had been. He told her everything that had been told to him when it was all said and done, how Thorin had fallen and how Fili and Kili had fallen in turn when trying to protect their uncle. He told her how he had been brought back to the camp just in time to speak with Thorin one last time, and how the dwarf king had asked to part from him in friendship.

“He asked me to forgive him,” he said quietly. “For something that he was right to do. I betrayed his trust, and I gave away the very piece of the treasure that was an heirloom for his line. And he asked _me_ to forgive _him_.”

“He spoke in anger,” Dís said, her voice sounding oddly faint. “He does… _used to_ do that a lot. He could say horrible things when he was angry, but he never… Mahal knows he never meant a single word of it and would only beat himself up over it later. It only ever meant that he was afraid, that he didn’t know what to do…”

She made a half-choked noise, and Bilbo looked up at her. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been surprised, but she had been so stoic throughout the tale that seeing tears in her eyes shocked him. She gave him a weak smile and shook her head.

“Don’t mind me,” she said, her voice thick. “I’ve just not… I suppose I haven’t quite come to terms with it yet… I didn’t get to see them, and…”

“I know,” Bilbo interrupted. “I’ve… I haven’t really come to terms with it either. Just…” He fished out a handkerchief from his pocket, hesitantly holding it out to her. “Please, don’t cry…”

“And what else am I expected to do?” There was a hint of flint in Dís’s voice now, and she glared at him through her tears. “Am I expected to leave it be? To not mourn and simply carry on as though nothing ever happened - as all blasted nobles seemed to expect of their princess when my mother died and my father disappeared and my brother worked himself half to death simply to keep us all alive?”

“No!” Bilbo cried, frantically shaking his head. “No, that’s not what I meant at all!” The dwarrowdam still glared at him, but didn’t speak. Bilbo took it as a sign to continue, and to explain. “I don’t know what to do when people cry… I never know what to do, and I end up saying something stupid. I’m sorry, I just… panicked.”

They sat in silence for a long while before Dís looked away, nodding slowly.

“Forgive me,” she muttered. “I have a lot on my mind right now…”

“Stay here tonight,” Bilbo suggested, smiling slightly at the look that gained him. “What sort of friend would I be if I could not offer you a place to stay for a night or two? You must be tired. The journey from Ered Luin and here may not be long, but with all the rains lately the roads must have been horrible.”

 

Perhaps, on some level, he hadn’t expected Dís to accept his offer. But only a little while later he busied himself with getting one of the guestrooms ready while she made use of the bathroom to wash herself. It felt strange to have a dwarf staying for the night in his smial again, especially one in such close relation to Thorin. Strange, but not unwelcome. As he passed through the smial on the way back to the parlour, he could hear her humming the very song that Thorin had sung that April night two years ago.

“As though he never left,” he muttered to himself as he curled up in his armchair again. “Just a little bit different…”

He wasn’t certain how long he’d been sitting there, staring into the fire, when Dís appeared in the doorway. She was clad only in a light tunic and a pair of thin cloth trousers now, and her still damp hair hung heavy over her shoulders. She gave him a faint smile as she approached him.

“Thank you for letting me stay,” she said quietly. “You have a beautiful home.”

“My father built it,” Bilbo answered, smiling softly in return. “As a wedding gift for my mother.”

Dís nodded thoughtfully, glancing around the room with a curious look on her face. Then she smiled again, seeming nervous this time.

“I understand if I am overstepping boundaries,” she said carefully. “But would you help me braid my hair?”

Bilbo blinked and stared at her. She seemed serious, though the look on her face reminded him much of Kili – surprisingly young, for all that she was a good deal older than himself.

“That’s meant for family,” he said slowly. “Should you really be asking me?”

“If it is not something that would make you uncomfortable, I should like to call you family,” she answered. “You were close with my sons and my brother, and my cousins regard you as family. I would not have that go to waste.”

Without Bilbo really knowing how it came to happen, he soon had Dís sitting before him on a stool while he carefully brushed and combed and braided her hair. They spoke silently to each other, of anything that came to mind. Dís told him, after a little bit of gentle prodding, a few stories from her earliest memories of Thorin, and Bilbo in return told her some of the antics her sons had gotten up to during the journey. Despite the confusion and uncertainty, it was a comfortable way of carefully getting to know each other.

The hobbit could remember once during the journey when Thorin had made an offhand comment about how the small burglar’s hair would soon be long enough to braid. He couldn’t be certain that the dwarf had meant anything by it, but the idea had been met with a surprising amount of enthusiasm from the rest of the Company. Ori had even started to design a possible bead for him.

Now, sitting comfortably in his armchair and having his fingers buried in Dís’s hair, Bilbo couldn’t help but wonder if Thorin would ever have allowed him to do the same for him.

Dís reached out and carefully touched one of the braids that Bilbo had made just in front of her ear.

“I don’t believe I recognise this,” she said slowly. “What have you made?”

“It’s a chain link braid,” Bilbo explained with a smile. “My mother had a strange fondness for it, though the style feels more dwarven than anything. I thought it’d suit you.”

She chuckled softly.

“A mirror wouldn’t be amiss,” she said. “Might I see?”

“Once I am finished,” Bilbo answered. “I swear, you dwarves have double the amount of hair any hobbit could ever have…”

It took yet a little while, and four more braids, before Bilbo allowed the dwarrowdam to get to her feet. Remembering that there was a mirror in the hallway, she hurried to go and take a look, and Bilbo couldn’t help but laugh at the similarity between her and her sons behaviour. He got up as well, curiously peeking into the hallway. She stood there, staring into the mirror and trailing her fingers over the braids.

“Thorin would have loved this,” she sighed. “He might not have looked it, but he liked intricate styles. He used to help me with my braids…”

Bilbo’s smile faded somewhat. The more they spoke, the more he had realised that there was a good deal he had never known of either Thorin or his nephews. Dís was full of stories of them, and Bilbo had only known them for a few brief months of their long lives.

“I wish I could have seen that side of him,” he blurted out. “I suppose I only ever saw… well, who he was when he travelled.”

Dís turned her head and gazed at him, a small kind smile on her lips.

“You saw him as the king he was,” she said softly. “The king he strived to be. And you saw him as a friend when he started to open up to you and respect you for whom you were. He always had difficulties with that.” She moved away from the mirror and stepped closer to him, very gently placing her hands on his shoulders. “You saw him as a person, and not just a figurehead for our people. You appealed to the side of him that only ever looked out for his family. Had he lived, you would have seen that side of him.”

 

That night, Bilbo did not sleep well. He tossed and turned for several hours before he even managed to fall asleep, and when he finally did, his dreams were dark.

He dreamt of shadowy figures surrounding him and Thorin in the tent where the dwarf-king had died. They continuously moved closer, and Thorin begged him not to let them take him away. Somehow, Bilbo knew who those shadows had been once; Thorin’s dead relatives, his father, his mother, his brother, his grandfather… They were reaching out for him, calling his name and urging him to leave with them. And when Bilbo would not let go of his dwarf, _his dwarf_ , they were both enveloped in darkness. The hobbit could feel Thorin being torn away from him in the dark, and he cried out for him, but no matter how Bilbo searched, he couldn’t find him.

“Bilbo!”

The voice that called to him didn’t sound right, it couldn’t be Thorin.

“I have to find Thorin,” he whimpered. “I have to find him, he’ll die, I can’t let him die…”

“Bilbo, wake up!” Strong hands grabbed his shoulders and shook him, and Bilbo woke with a gasp. It was still dark in his room, but a candle illuminated Dís’s worried face where she leant over him. “Finally! Durin’s beard, I thought you wouldn’t wake! You were crying out in your sleep, and you were thrashing as though something was trying to hurt you…”

With the memories of the dream still fresh in his mind, Bilbo let out a strangled sob and threw his arms around her neck. She stiffened, but did not move away.

“Don’t leave me,” he begged. “Please, don’t disappear like he did!”

He clung to her like a small child begging for comfort from a parent, and soon he felt her place one hand on the back of his head and gently stroke his hair.

“I won’t leave,” she promised. “Breathe, little hobbit.” She wrapped her arms around him and simply lifted him out of the bed, climbing in herself and placing him in her lap. She held him close, as Bilbo suspected she had done with Fili and Kili when they were small. “What did you dream of? Do you want to tell me?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Bilbo slowly began to tell her. As he spoke, the darkness outside the circle of light the candle provided seemed a little less compact, a little less threatening. He felt like a child again, and remembered how his mother and father had stayed with him when he’d had nightmares and waited until he fell asleep once more. More than once, he’d woken up again in the night and found his father asleep in the chair next to his bed and his mother carefully trying to make him more comfortable. Dís, he knew, was no stranger to comforting children. It was soothing to have a mother’s presence in the room again.

“Thorin is in the Halls of Mahal,” Dís told him gently when he had finished speaking. “As are Fili and Kili. They are with our kin, and they will never be harmed again.” Her voice caught as she said this, and her grip on the hobbit tightened. “There are no creatures with ill will where they are, and nothing will take them where we can’t follow. One day, Bilbo. One day we won’t have to wait anymore.”

Bilbo wept again at that, and he felt by the wet patches in his hair where Dís had buried her face that she wept as well. They held on to each other, as though to reassure themselves that the other still lived and would not suddenly be torn away from them, and they still held on to each other when their tears exhausted them and they fell asleep once more, letting the candle burn out as dawn neared.

 

Dís remained in Bag End for a week, telling her ever-worried host that she would be able to catch up with the caravan when she left.

“They move slowly,” she explained. “It is always faster to travel alone, and I will not have any difficulties in catching up.”

She admitted, after a little bit of prodding from Bilbo’s side, that it was soothing to be in the company of someone who truly knew what had been lost. Who had been there to see everything. And Bilbo in turn admitted that it was soothing to have someone there to speak to, someone who had known the people he mourned for.

“I’ve not spoken much about the journey to anyone,” he explained to her. “My relatives wouldn’t understand. The way they see it, I’ve completely lost my mind, though I’ve some interesting stories to tell.”

They spent the days either walking through the fields around Hobbiton or sitting quietly in the garden, always speaking about what their lives were like and how things had changed. Any hobbits who met them and who (very tentatively) asked Bilbo about his companion received the simple answer that she was a friend of his who was staying at Bag End for a little while before she would travel east to join her kin. It probably didn’t help his reputation, but he found that he wasn’t particularly bothered by what others thought.

The evenings they spent in the parlour or in the smoking room of Bag End, speaking of Thorin and Fili and Kili and the things they remembered of them. Bilbo made Dís laugh until she could barely breathe when he told her how Thorin had been startled by one of the giant bees near Beorn’s house and had fallen off his chair with a shout, flailing like a madman. Dís in turn brought more tears from Bilbo when she told him how her husband died and how Thorin had immediately taken over the role of a father for Fili and Kili, how he would drop nearly everything for them and do what he could to make them smile.

When it was time for Dís to leave, Bilbo filled her pack with as much food as she could carry, as well as honey-sweets for the children that travelled with the caravan.

“They should have something more to enjoy than the scenery,” he said drily when questioned about the little bag. “Which I suspect will be rather dreadful, judging by how it rained when we were travelling east at this time of year.”

“I will do what I can to move fast,” she promised him when he expressed worry over the state of the roads. “And I will send word to you when we have reached Erebor. I do not like that my cousins have not sent any messages to you; they should at least attempt to keep up some form of contact…”

At the mental image of Dís scolding the entire Company for not having written to their hobbit, Bilbo began to laugh.

Bilbo walked with her as far as Bywater. Just outside the small village, away from curious hobbits, they stopped. Neither really knew how to said goodbye. After a long silence, Dís finally reached out and pulled the hobbit into a tight embrace.

“I _will_ write to you,” she said firmly, burying her face in his hair again. “And you _will_ write back. I don’t care if you don’t have anything to say, I don’t care if it’s an account of just a birthday party for one of your relatives. Don’t stop yourself by thinking that you’ll only be a bother – you never will be.”

“Then what am I?” Bilbo asked quietly, wrapping his arms around her as best he could, for she was as wide as Thorin had been. “I’m only a fussy little hobbit who happened to be dragged out on an adventure.”

“You are a friend of the line of Durin,” Dís answered. “You were the friend of my sons, and a most treasured friend of my brother. And you are my friend, Bilbo.” With a smile, she pulled back somewhat and waited until he looked back up at her. Then she bowed her head and pressed a gentle kiss to his brow. “You are worth more than you realise.”

 

December had come, and with it the first slight snowfall. Rare as it was to even get snow in the Shire, Bilbo hoped in some distant corner of his mind that it would melt soon. It was not a thick layer that covered the ground, but it was certainly enough to make some hobbits grumble. And Bilbo was inclined to grumble as well when he went out to get more firewood and had to push snow out of the way with his feet to get the door to the small shed open.

One morning when Bilbo had just woken up and rolled out of bed and done his customary swearing over the cold floor in his bedroom, he heard a frantic knocking on the door to his smial. Swearing again, this time over early visitors, he pulled on his trousers and his old robe and went to open the door. Poor Hamfast Gamgee stood out in the snow, throwing nervous glances over his shoulder and giving Bilbo a jittery smile.

“Begging your pardon for bothering you so early, master Bilbo,” he said. “But there is something you might want to see.”

“And what would that be?” Bilbo asked, raising an eyebrow. Hamfast rarely said anything along these lines – last time it had happened, it was because a rather grumpy goat had managed to get into the vegetable patch and proceeded to destroy everything.

“There’s this bird, see,” Hamfast said, rubbing the back of his neck. “And it’s rather… Well…”

“If it’s only a bird, then leave it be,” Bilbo sighed. “I’m sure it’s hoping to find food.”

“It’s a raven, master Bilbo,” Hamfast said quickly when the master of Bag End tried to shut the door. “And it’s been sitting on the fence a good long while now, and it won’t budge no matter what I do.”

That made Bilbo practically slam the door open and fly outside.

“A raven,” he cried. “A raven!”

Hamfast stared after him as though he had gone mad, but quickly followed. And indeed, sitting on the fence by the small gate was a large raven with a thick leather pouch tied to its leg, watching them curiously. When it saw Bilbo it let out a loud hoarse cry and puffed up its feathers, as though to greet him.

“Hello there,” Bilbo said breathlessly, grinning at the bird. “Am I right in assuming you have something for me?”

The bird cried out again, and with a few flaps of it wings it leapt off the fence and landed on the hobbit’s shoulder.

“No need to worry, Hamfast,” Bilbo told his rather surprised gardener. “It’s a messenger from my friends. It may come back eventually, so if you see if before I do, simply let me know.”

“I’ll certainly do so,” Hamfast promised, eyeing the bird suspiciously. “It’s just… strange.”

“Don’t worry,” Bilbo laughed. “They might look a little disconcerting, but they won’t harm anyone.”

He brought the bird with him back into the warmth of the smial and immediately went to the pantry to find something for it to eat. The poor thing had flown so far, and somehow Bilbo doubted that it had eaten as much as it ought.

“I only have a little bit of ham,” he told the bird regretfully. “I hope that’ll be alright?”

He picked up the small piece of meat, quickly making up his mind to drag himself outside later and see if anyone would be at the market in Hobbiton. Going into the kitchen, he set down the ham on the table. The raven hopped down as well and turned to him, stretching out its leg to allow the hobbit to remove the pouch. As soon as Bilbo had done so, the bird leapt onto its meal and started to eat.

Bilbo eyed the pouch curiously for a moment before he fiddled with the small string keeping it closed. Out of the pouch he pulled two small pieces of parchment. Picking up one of them, he began to read.

_Bilbo,_

_We have reached Erebor, all safe and sound, as promised. When you receive this, we will have been here for a while, and we will have settled in. I have already spoken with my cousins, and they seem most contrite to have neglected you. Balin promised he would write, and that there would be a short message ready to be sent along with this._

_I should have mentioned it before I left, but the ravens can do with a small reward for their service. Whether it is food or a small bauble given to them, they will be pleased enough. Food will probably be more important in this case – the Shire is quite far._

_There shall be regular caravans travelling between Ered Luin and Erebor from now on, according to Dáin. There are still miners in the Blue Mountains settlement, and many here have family left there. There shall be a first caravan leaving Erebor very soon, and I shall leave instructions with at least one of the dwarves travelling with them to bring letters to you. Any replies you may have can be brought back with them. It may be a slow system, but it shall be satisfactory._

_I hope you are taking care of yourself, little burglar. I hope you remember to eat your seven meals per day, and that you sleep properly with no more nightmares to disturb you. But I also hope that you are doing something somewhat reckless, that you’ve taken your long walking holidays to meet friends, and that you have driven your relatives to distraction with stories of your journey._

_Tell them the story of Fili and Kili and the trolls. Or Thorin and the giant bee. That should amuse them._

_All my love,_

_Dís_

The hobbit had to wipe tears from his eyes as he finished reading and put the parchment down, though he smiled all the same. Dís truly seemed intent on keeping her promise of regular contact, and it was nice to have someone thinking about him and worrying whether he was well or not. Goodness knew only a select few of his relatives did.

“I suppose I really have made a new friend,” he said, glancing up at the raven with a smile. The bird didn’t seem to notice, still engrossed with its meal. “Well, that’s soothing at least…”

He took up the other parchment, smiling a little wider when he recognised Balin’s neat writing.

_Dear Bilbo,_

_Our most sincere apologies for not having written to you sooner, and our congratulations to you for having reclaimed your property! Lady Dís brought us news of the predicament you had faced upon your return to the Shire; we swear to you that none of us had considered that the situation might become so dire that your relatives would have you declared dead in your absence._

_Our silence certainly does not mean that we have forgotten you. None of us could. Even Dáin has requested that we give you his greetings and well-wishes in this letter, and to tell you that if you should ever require aid of any sort, you have but to ask. He will send someone, most likely one of us._

_Lady Dís has probably informed you about the caravans that shall be travelling between Erebor and Ered Luin. We shall send our letters with them, and hope that you will answer us in turn. There is much we wish to tell you._

_Sincerely,_

_Your friends in the Company_

With a laugh, Bilbo put the parchment back down and shook his head. It was good to know that they thought of him, and having their apologies for not having sent any messages to him did lighten his heart. To even have Dáin’s well-wishes, despite not knowing the burly dwarf well at all, made the anxious ball in his stomach ease.

He got up from his seat, pausing briefly as the raven looked up at him and let out what he assumed to be a questioning noise.

“I’ll go and fetch ink and paper,” he explained. “I’ll have two responses for you to bring back. Don’t worry, I promise they’ll be short and light to carry.”

 

The years passed slowly, and the wounds that the parting of Thorin and his nephews had left healed. They were never far from Bilbo’s mind, but he at least felt able to think of them and to speak of them without weeping or breaking off mid-story. He grew comfortable in Bag End once more, though he still wandered beyond the borders and even sometimes left his smial in the care of the Gamgee family while he wandered as far as Rivendell. Other hobbits shook their heads and whispered “poor old Mad Baggins, not quite right in the head” when they thought he couldn’t hear, but the whispers had ceased to bother him. If anything, he decided that perhaps he was a little bit mad, and then he might as well live as such. He was an oddball even for being half Took, after all. Goodness knows what his parents would have said, though he rather suspected that his grandfather Gerontius in particular would have laughed and shook his hand and congratulated him for it all.

With every caravan that came from Erebor, he received more news and letters from his friends. And with every caravan that left Ered Luin, he sent his replies and more news from the Shire to bring back. It seemed a poor trade at first, until he noticed that some of the dwarves who travelled regularly in the caravans were surprisingly interested to learn more of hobbits and their ways.

But the older Bilbo got, the more he thought of his old travels – of the Misty Mountains, of Beorn’s house, of Mirkwood and the Long Lake, of Esgaroth and of Dale, and of Erebor. He found himself wishing silently that he could see it all again.

The year he became ninety-nine, he adopted his orphaned nephew and cousin, Frodo Baggins. Young Frodo was a good deal quieter than he had been as a small child, and Bilbo worried that the lad might want to return to Buckland and live with his mother’s family. But barely three months had passed in Bag End when Frodo firmly told his uncle that he never wanted to leave.

“I like it here,” the lad said. “And I like spending time with you. I always have. So please, uncle, don’t send me back. I’d rather not be near the Brandywine for a while.”

So it was said and done, and Bilbo soon enough received more letters from Erebor, along with a particular one from Dís. He had told her last time of his wish to help Frodo, and now he finally had her answer. Though the letter contained something that fed the idea of travelling again.

_My dear Bilbo,_

_As you write, it seems to me that the lad needs you and your guidance. The life at Brandy Hall cannot be good for him – not so close to the river that claimed the lives of his parents, and not around relatives who are always nosing about. Take him to live with you in Bag End, Bilbo, and let the lad breathe in the quiet and calm there, as I was allowed to do when I visited you. Your home has a soothing feeling to it, and it becomes home to whoever enters through the door. Young Frodo will do well there, I believe._

_I can tell you that Dáin’s son now has bested his father. The lad has the makings of a mighty warrior, though he is yet not tried in battle. You should have seen them when they last sparred! Dáin certainly held nothing back, but young Stonehelm knocked him flat on his arse. I am very proud of my young kinsman, and I admit that the opportunity to have a laugh at my king’s and cousin’s expense was quite refreshing._

_Erebor is grand, and the restoration work has nearly been completed. It has taken long, far too long, but there have been complications along the way. For one, Dáin wished to seal off parts of the treasure chamber, to ensure that the vast amount of wealth gathered before will not accumulate once again and attract another dragon; this, sadly, did not sit well with the nobles. But Dáin pushed his will through, as he is wont to do, and would not hear of any objections. I am pleased to say that he did not cite Thorin as an example of what could occur, and that he became furious at a noble’s attempt to do so. Instead, he chose to cite Thrór and Smaug as examples. The Company encouraged the idea of limiting the treasury. No one has a wish for history to repeat itself._

_Dearest Bilbo, I do wish to see you again. I wish to show you how the destroyed and dark caverns that you once saw have changed, and become filled with laughter and light. I would lead you through the myriads of corridors and halls, and I would show you the workshops that once again ring with the blow of hammers and the tinkle of gems. I would show you our grand library, and I am certain you would love to see it._

_I shan’t ask you to abandon your home or your dear nephew, but I wish to see you once more. Your kind does not have the longevity of dwarves, and I fear that my wish might not come true before you are no longer of this world. I should like to travel to the Shire once more as well, and see its rolling hills and golden fields, its little rivers and beautiful blue sky. I should like to sit with you beneath the oak tree on the roof of Bag End and watch the clouds as we did once, or sit with you in the smoking room and share a pipe. I did not spend long in your dear home, and still I miss it. I miss hearing you tell stories of your childhood, and of your parents._

_Forgive the ramblings of a lonely dwarf, my friend. I may be surrounded by friends and kin, but still I find myself missing you more than anyone, for all that I cannot claim to know you as well as the Company. I miss the part of my family that is not here with me, and I cannot know that I will see you soon._

_All my love,_

_Dís_

It made Bilbo’s heart ache to read the letter, and he thought much of how he might fulfil her wish to see him again.

But on the year of his 110th birthday, eleven years later, he had made up his mind, and with the caravan leaving for Erebor in the spring that year he sent a letter containing these words:

_Next year, I promise. Next year, when Frodo is old enough to fend for himself and be his own master, I shall come to you._

 

It was quite a relief to have made it as far as he had; getting over the Misty Mountains had been tricky, especially once he found that his legs kept getting tired more easily than they once had. But Bilbo had persevered and continued on his way. He was half Baggins and half Took, and therefore stubborn as a mule. Or more stubborn than one, depending on which side of the family you asked. The easy part of the journey had only come after the mountains, when he met a group of dwarves by the border of Mirkwood and was led through there by them. They explained cheerfully to him that lady Dís herself had requested that they meet him and escort him.

As they left the forest and came through the lands beyond, Bilbo gazed about with a smile. The desolation left by the dragon had changed a lot. The ash-enriched soil had been well cared for, and was now filled with life. The simple fact that trees grew in the area again quite threw off the hobbit’s sense of direction for a while, until he saw the Mountain in the distance.

It wasn’t until they had passed Dale, now rebuilt and bright and cheerful, that the reality of it all sunk in. Bilbo really didn’t know how much things had changed. He had received continuous updates from his friends, but he had not been there to see it all. Bard was dead, as was his son Bain. The grandson Brand was now the ruler of Dale with its merry markets and bells. And Erebor was rebuilt, but still had Dáin Ironfoot as its ruler. His friends had seen so much, and he had not been there to help them. But still he wiped those grim thoughts from his mind as he approached the gates with his escort, and heard a familiar booming voice call to them. Dwalin, now with his hair and beard coloured iron grey, came towards them with his arms spread wide and a bright grin on his face.

“Look at you, little burglar,” he shouted. “White-haired and wrinkled! Time has taken its toll on you, I see!”

“As it has on you,” Bilbo called back. “You look more like a grizzled old bear than you did last I saw you!”

The hobbit’s escort seemed quite confused as the captain of the guard rushed up to them and embraced their small charge. Bilbo, on the other hand, was laughing brightly.

“Look at you, Dwalin,” he said. “You look like a tottering old man, and yet you’re just as spry as my youngest cousins. Is this the secret of dwarven longevity?”

“We don’t truly _seem_ old until we reach the last few decades of our lives,” Dwalin answered. “Come now, master Baggins, and I’ll show you inside. There are quite many who are waiting to see you!”

He shooed away the escort and planted one large hand on his friend’s shoulder. So Bilbo was led inside the Mountain, and for every step he looked around curiously and could point out a great many things that had changed. Dwalin was surprisingly talkative, though perhaps it was more because he did not normally speak much and had not seen his friend for some time.

“Dáin would have met you himself,” he explained. “But Dís would not have it. She bullied him into attending the meetings he had to take care of, as well as hold court as he should. Dori’s taking care of some guild-business, and Nori’s… somewhere. No idea where. Be happy that Glóin was too busy, or he would have shown up with his whole family and talked your ears off.”

“I suppose Bofur’s in the mines?” Bilbo asked. “And Bombur’s in the kitchens?”

“Correct,” Dwalin answered. “Bofur swore up and down that he’d be around for dinner, at least, and Bombur is not one to miss that. Bifur’s in the marketplace, still making toys. He’s gotten quite popular with the little ones.”

Bilbo frowned slightly. There were some names that he missed on that list.

“What of Balin, Óin and Ori?” he asked. “Where are they? And if anyone should be bullying Dáin into doing his duty, shouldn’t it be Balin?”

Dwalin’s face darkened, and he shook his head.

“They’re not here,” he rumbled. “They left.”

“Left?” Bilbo blurted out. “Left and went where? What happened?”

“Do you recall when we told you of the unrest here?” Dwalin asked, lowering his voice somewhat. “How there were whispers of greater riches and a greater kingdom?”

“Moria,” Bilbo muttered. “Yes, I remember.”

“Well, Balin listened to those whispers and made up his mind.” The grizzled dwarf snorted and shook his head. “Old fool. He petitioned Dáin to create an expedition to at least go and see, to figure out if it was at all possible.”

“Dáin refused, I hope,” Bilbo sniffed. “That’s naught but a fool’s errand. Balin did ask me in his last letter if I should like to go on one last adventure, but I said no. I had my own business to tend to.”

“Best that way,” Dwalin agreed. “But yes, Dáin refused. Only, Balin did not listen to him. He spoke with others and finally told Dáin that with or without his permission, he would leave for Khazad-dûm with those willing to follow him. Ori and Óin went with him, for all that their brothers tried to convince them not to. There was a gorgeous row between Ori and his brothers. Ori actually bopped Dori on the nose, he was so furious.”

“How long ago is this?” Bilbo asked.

“Thirteen years, now,” Dwalin sighed. “And we did get frequent messages from them, and all seemed to go well.”

“But?” Bilbo said quietly. “I can sense that there is a _but_.”

“We’ve heard nothing for eight years,” Dwalin said. “Not a word. Not a peep. No message, no messenger. I’d go and search for them myself, if I could, but it is too dangerous. Dori and Nori have already spoken of going to search for their brother, but Dáin has been very firm with them and said that he’d sooner lock them up for their own safety than let them go to Khazad-dûm and search for those who are most likely already dead.”

“That is harsh,” Bilbo grumbled. “Their little brother, who they’ve not had word from in eight years! Of course they’d want to look for him!”

“Harsh, but true,” Dwalin told him. “Don’t judge Dáin too hard for that, Bilbo. He might seem brash and brutish, but he’s wise beyond his years. He knew it wasn’t time when we had fought in the battle of Azanulbizar, and he was the only one who dared to tell Thráin to not charge in there. Little lad of but thirty-two, and he stood up to his king and said it was foolish. He knew it wasn’t time now either, and still my brother took the Mountain’s best healer and most experienced scribe and went on this fool’s errand.” He smiled at the look on the hobbit’s face and shook his head. “I’ve done my grieving, Bilbo. Balin is gone, and I might never know what happened to him. I will not see him again, not in this world.”

“But it must sting,” Bilbo said slowly. “Doesn’t it? Not knowing what happened, not knowing if he’s actually dead…”

“Of course it stings,” Dwalin answered. “But I’ve made my peace with that. Come now, let’s speak of more cheerful things, shall we? I have to keep you somewhat entertained before dinner.”

“Will Dáin join us?” Bilbo asked.

“I doubt anyone could stop him,” Dwalin grinned. “But don’t worry, it’ll be something informal. You’re a close friend, after all, and there’ll be no outsiders present.”

 

The dinner had gone quite well, all things considered. There were tears, and quite a lot of near-backbreaking embraces, but Bilbo had gotten used to those years ago. He had to admit that he was only happy to be back among dwarves again.

It had been strange, seeing the company with six of its members lost. He had missed Balin’s steady calming presence, Óin’s questions about his health and Ori’s questions about the places he had never seen. But being back in Erebor had brought back in double force the feeling that there were three in particular who should have been there. Hidden away in the rooms that had been given him for his stay, Bilbo found himself staring numbly at the carvings on the wall and wondering what Thorin, Fili and Kili would have said about the beauty of the Mountain now.

There was a brief knock on the door, and Bilbo started out of his reveries. He gave the door a suspicious glare for a moment before getting up from his seat and going to open it. It could be anyone, really – though hopefully a friend. He had only just reached the door when a familiar voice called to him.

“Are you going to keep me waiting until my hair is white as snow? Your legs are not yet so weak that they cannot carry you to the door, Bilbo!”

The hobbit relaxed with a laugh and opened the door for Dís, who smiled warmly at him.

“It is good to see you,” she said softly. “Forgive me for disturbing you at such a late hour, but I wished to speak with you some more. Alone, preferably.”

“Well, I don’t have anything else planned,” Bilbo answered, stepping aside to let her in. “I was wondering when you would show up, actually.”

“Oh, I’ve kept you waiting, have I?” Dís smirked at him as she entered, though it was teasing more than anything else. “My deepest apologies.”

Bilbo smirked back at her and shook his head.

“Oh no,” he said. “Too late for apologies now, I’m afraid. But you could join me for a cup of tea, if you’d like, and tell me stories of what you have been up to since last I heard from you.”

Soon they sat comfortably together before the fire with cups of tea in their hands and spoke calmly of everything that had happened since the last caravan had passed the Shire. Bilbo made Dís laugh with the tale of his birthday party, and even got up to recount his speech for her. She laughed, as he had expected she would, at the small veiled insults he had snuck in there. Finally he sat down and grinned at her.

“And that was that,” he said. “I left the same evening, and was only briefly detained by Gandalf.”

“You are excellent at making speeches,” Dís chuckled. “I don’t believe I should ever have dared to say something like that.”

“Now, that’s a lie,” Bilbo laughed. “Though I suppose you would have been a tad more blunt about it.”

“Something along the lines of ‘goodbye, I hope I never see any of you again’ would have been enough for me,” Dís sighed. “That is more or less what you were aiming for.”

“Well, yes.” The hobbit’s smile faded somewhat as he thought of his nephew back in the Shire, and everything that he had left to the poor lad. “Though it pains me to think that I might not see Frodo again. He may be of age now, but he is still young. Only a lad.”

“You are truly not returning to the Shire, then?” Dís peered thoughtfully at him. “Where will you go?”

“Rivendell,” Bilbo said firmly. “I will go there, and I will remain there. Lord Elrond made such an offer to me when I first visited there on the journey to Erebor.”

“Rivendell,” Dís snorted. “You could well remain here, could you not?”

Bilbo smiled sadly and shook his head. Remaining in Erebor would be too difficult with all the memories gathered there. He watched her face and saw understanding dawn on her, and how it was quickly replaced by regret.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I should not have spoken offhandedly like that.”

“No, it is not through any fault of yours,” Bilbo sighed. “Dís, you are not wrong. I will never say that you are wrong, not in this. I could remain here. In fact, my heart would have bid me to do so.”

“Then why not?” Dís reached out and gently took his hand. “It gets better with time, Bilbo. You’ve said so in your letters. You’ve been at peace with only having memories of them.”

“I have been.” Bilbo smiled at her and squeezed her hand. “But the memories are a little too strong here. And to know that Balin, Ori and Óin are gone hurts deep down as well.”

“You believe Rivendell will ease your mind?” she asked. “Being around elves might help?”

“Oh, elves are not as bad as some are keen to make them out to be,” Bilbo laughed. “Lord Elrond in particular is very kind.”

“He’d best be,” Dís grumbled in response. “In particular if he is to look after you in your twilight years.”

“Oh, I still have some years left in me.” The hobbit grinned brightly at her, and for a moment he looked just as he had when she first met him. “Besides, ravens will have a shorter flight to Rivendell than to the Shire.”

She peered at him, and finally she seemed to draw a heavy breath and relax.

“I am glad to hear you say so,” she murmured. “I was trying to figure out how I should make someone of the caravans travel out of the way to Rivendell to bring you my messages.”

Bilbo’s smile faded somewhat; he gave her a long puzzled look and raised an eyebrow.

“You thought I wouldn’t want to write anymore,” he stated; he hadn’t meant for the words to sound like an accusation, but he winced as he spoke all the same. “No, forgive me, that sounds too harsh. But Dís, did you really believe that I’d not write to you anymore?”

“I worried,” she answered. “But I tried telling myself that I was being foolish.” She gave him a long look, and he thought he could see a hint of an uncertain young girl in her eyes. “I _am_ being foolish, aren’t I? You will write, won’t you?”

Bilbo rose from his seat, put his cup down and gestured for her to do the same. Once she was on her feet, he pulled her into a tight embrace, gently trailed his fingers through her hair and spoke:

“You are incredibly foolish if you think I will give up one of my dearest friends in this world. I will write, Dís, as I promised you I would. I’ve not broken my promise since I first made it, and I won’t break it now.”

“I am not one of the Company,” Dís muttered as she carefully wrapped her arms around him, moving as though she worried she would break him. “I can’t claim to know you as well as they do.”

“And still I consider you one of my dearest friends,” Bilbo chuckled. “We’ve had some years to get to know each other – I’d say I’m quite comfortable calling you a friend.”

“Dwalin knows you better, he’s-“

“He’s not the dwarf who came to my door only to speak with me. None in the Company can claim to be the dwarf who helped me realise that I was not alone in my grief.” The hobbit drew back somewhat and looked up at her, smiling warmly as he reached out to touch her cheek. “None of them were the dwarf who soothed me when I’d had nightmares, or who held me and wept with me for those we had lost.”

 

They had spoken long into the night that time, and when they had finally fallen silent in contemplation of all the news and all the small bits of information they had received, Dís had managed to drift off to sleep in her chair. Bilbo, loath to wake her when she looked so peaceful, had simply wrapped a blanket around her and gone to bed. He’d woken in the morning to find her resting next to him, seeming quite comfortable despite the bed being a little too small for two people. He had helped her braid her hair again that morning, and that day she had led him around the Mountain and showed him everything she could. Just as she had promised, the library amazed him.

But soon, it was time for the hobbit to leave. His friends, predictably enough, asked if he wouldn’t stay with them rather than with the elves of Rivendell; Bilbo only smiled and said that as much as he wanted to, it would be better if he were elsewhere.

“Truth be told,” he said to Dís when they had a moment to themselves one evening, “I have a strange feeling that I’ll be safer in Rivendell. It’s well protected, and not just by guards as far as stories tell.”

When it was time, Dís travelled with him to the edge of Mirkwood, where he was to be escorted through once more by a group of dwarves. When they paused at the forest’s edge, ready to say farewell, Bilbo turned his head and stared in the direction of the Mountain with a strange look on his face.

“I have a feeling that I’ll not see Erebor again in my lifetime,” he said slowly. “Such a strange feeling, and a shame at that.”

“We both knew this already,” Dís answered him with a sad smile. “But yes, it is a shame. It was good to have you here for a time.”

“I’ll miss you all,” Bilbo sighed. “Even though I’ll write, I’ll miss you. And I’ll miss the Mountain, and the Long Lake. I do believe I’ll miss Mirkwood as well, once I’m safe in Elrond’s house.”

“If you ever wish to come back, you need only let us know.” Dís pulled the hobbit into a tight embrace as she spoke, letting herself indulge for a moment despite the presence of the guards meant to escort her friends. “A single letter is all it takes, and we’ll see to it that you are brought back here.”

“I know, I know,” Bilbo chuckled. “We’ll see what I do.”

And after several heartfelt farewells and promises to write, Bilbo was off into the forest. More than once he looked back and saw the Lady of Durin’s line still there, waiting and watching until he passed out of sight. Somehow, he knew that this would be the last he ever saw of her – standing like a statue at the forest’s edge and watching as yet another friend passed out of her sight for the last time.

 

Seventeen years. Sitting in his rooms in Elrond’s house, Bilbo wondered if it had truly been that long since he left the Shire. And now, after seventeen long years, his past seemed to have caught up with him. Frodo, his dear Frodo, had come to Rivendell bearing the Ring and had nearly paid for it with his life. Council had been taken, and after nearly a full day’s palaver it had been decided that poor Frodo would carry the Ring to the very far east, to Mordor itself, and destroy it.

“All that I have done to you, my lad,” the old hobbit murmured to himself. “And still you love me. How is this fair? You should hate me, by all right, for having placed such a burden on you.”

A raven had reached him mere weeks before Frodo’s arrival; Dís had told him of dark tidings from Erebor, and explained that Glóin would come to Rivendell to seek Elrond’s advice. She had not written much, in fear of the raven being caught. Out of nowhere, Bilbo’s life had been turned upside-down. Rivendell was supposed to be calming – not the hive of activity and worry that it had become now.

And for all his calm and apparent cockiness at the council, Bilbo was terrified.

For sixty years he’d carried that little ring in his pocket. Sixty long years it had waited, and he’d used it so very often. Only now when Gandalf had told his tale of how he’d reached his conclusions about it did Bilbo understand just how foolish he had been – not to mention how lucky, considering that the little thing had not been active, so to speak, when he carried it.

And now it was in the hands of his dear nephew and cousin, his dear Frodo who had already suffered enough because of it.

He thought back to his first great journey, to the mishap in the Misty Mountains that had led to him finding the Ring, and he smiled sadly as he remembered how he had told his friends of it only reluctantly a good deal later.

“How I wish you had asked more about it then, my friends,” he sighed. “A magic ring is, after all, magic. It’s a wonder none of you thought to ask more. Though perhaps it is more of a joy than a wonder. Goodness knows what could have happened if it came into your hands, eh, Thorin? Desperate as you were then, that is. As I understand, it preys on that. Your wants, rather than your needs. The more desperate you are for these wants, the more power it’ll have over you…”

A knock on the door broke him out of his reveries, and he blinked in surprise as he looked over to it.

“Come on in,” he called out. “Pardon me for not getting up!”

“Getting lazy in your old age, my friend?” Glóin’s voice rumbled as the door opened. “Or is it that your legs are aching again?”

“More of the latter,” Bilbo admitted with a relieved laugh. “Come, do sit. I’ve not spoken much with you since you arrived.”

“Indeed you have not,” Glóin huffed, taking a seat opposite the hobbit. “But I’ll forgive you that. There’s been much on both our minds, I daresay.” He gave his old friend a long look and tilted his head. “Though perhaps it’s been for the best. You look a little ill.”

“I’ve had too much to think about,” the hobbit sighed. “Too much about the past.”

“About the little trinket you brought home, no doubt?” Glóin smiled at the sharp look his friend sent him. “No, don’t be angry. It’s only to be expected, Bilbo. You care for the lad, I know as much, and of course you’d beat yourself up over it. Mahal knows I’d do the same if it were Gimli.”

“I feel like a fool,” Bilbo muttered reluctantly. “I should have realised. I _did_ realise something was wrong. But I just… I was too weak, wasn’t I? Couldn’t feel calm without it in my pocket, just _had_ to carry it around even if I didn’t like how it just took control of my thoughts…”

“No weakness about it,” Glóin answered firmly. “Bilbo, you heard in the council about the rings given to the dwarves. The Seven. Dwarves were made to endure, and endure we did, but it could still go overboard for us. The Rings of Power were not made for people like you and I. And still, I bet that I would have succumbed faster than you, had I carried that little thing for sixty years.”

Bilbo huffed and looked away, his cheeks colouring somewhat. Gandalf _had_ said that hobbits were slow to succumb to corruption, hadn’t he?

“What actually brought you to speak with me?” he asked finally, attempting to change the subject. “Or did you merely want to praise your son’s skills again?”

“Ah, I could praise my Gimli until the skies fell down,” Glóin laughed. “But no, that is not why. There’s a message I brought with me from Erebor, and I was under orders not to give it to you until I had an answer from Elrond. Strange orders, perhaps, but they come from lady Dís and are best followed.”

“A message from Dís?” Bilbo frowned somewhat and eyed his friend curiously. “What does she have to say that she couldn’t in the message sent with the raven?”

Now Glóin’s expression turned grave. He shook his head firmly and said:

“That is sadly not for me to know. But I have the message here, and if you wish for me to leave and let you read it in peace, then I shall.”

“No, not yet.” Bilbo shook his head and gave a small smile. “I’d like to at least speak with you for a while first, of happier things.”

So they did; Bilbo asked for news of his friends, of how Glóin’s wife was doing, of how Dáin and his son were, and Glóin in return asked how the hobbit had entertained himself in Rivendell and got to take a small look at the book Bilbo had worked on. But after a good long while of talking, Glóin excused himself by explaining that he needed to ensure that his son hadn’t gotten himself into trouble.

“He’s hotheaded,” the dwarf explained with a laugh. “Such a fiery temper. Well, you have the message, and I’ll leave you to read it. If you wish to give a response, have it ready for me soon, will you?”

“Calm yourself,” Bilbo answered with a roll of his eyes. “I know you, and you won’t be going anywhere until you have a definite answer about who will travel with Frodo. I’ll give you a message to bring back to Dís, I promise.”

Left alone, the hobbit stared at the parchment in his hands. It was entirely possible that the only thing written in the message was a recount of the tale Glóin had told at the council; Dís may well wish to give her own view of it all. He sighed deeply and shook his head.

“You won’t find out until you open it,” he told himself. “Just get to it, Baggins…”

He opened it and read it through. Then he read it again, and yet once more. He stared at the letter, hoping vaguely that some of the things in it were just his imagination. Then he stumbled to his feet and hurried to the door.

“Glóin can’t have gotten far,” he said to himself as he left his rooms. “Oh, Bilbo, you fool, you could have read it when he was there!”

 

_My dear Bilbo,_

_Forgive me for not bringing you any happy news lately. There is no peace in this world anymore, I fear. By the time you read this letter, you will know how dire a turn things have taken for Erebor, and you know of the messenger that came to us and asked to be given information about you._

_People are frightened. They are right to be, when a messenger from Mordor knocks on our doors and tries to wheedle information out of us regarding a dear friend. I wish I could say that I stand strong, but I do not know if I can._

_All of this frightens me, Bilbo. This messenger claims you once stole a small ring. Dwalin and Glóin were quick to tell us that you found it beneath the Misty Mountains, but they did not know more. What on earth have you found that could catch the attention of Mordor, of Sauron himself? Why did you never tell me? You told me of all your worries, of everything that you had left in the Shire, but not of this. Did you feel that you could not trust me?_

_Dáin had taken the decision already to send Glóin to Rivendell to warn you – and to seek counsel from lord Elrond, wise as he is. Dáin fears for you also, Bilbo, and would go to great lengths to protect you. I truly hope you are aware of this. He is a very devoted dwarf, particularly to someone he sees as kin. And as I named you family, for the sake of your friendship with my late brother and sons, he saw you as the same. Keep this in mind, Bilbo. Dáin will fight for you, should you but ask him._

_And yet I fear that there will not be such a moment. I fear that this will be our last, my friend, the last time I can speak of Dáin like this. Should Mordor truly turn its eye on Erebor and choose to attack us, as we fear they will, we may not stand much of a chance. Busy though they are in the South, there is not much that stands in their way in the North – save Erebor. The watchtower of the North. Should we fall, so too will the rest of the northern lands. Mirkwood, Rivendell, even the Shire. All will fall to Sauron’s grasp, if we fail. And this, Bilbo, I fear will be Dáin’s last great stand. He will go out in a blaze of glory, as us of Durin’s line seem wont to do._

_For this reason, I fear this must be our goodbye. I do not dare to send missives with the ravens now, not when the lands are fraught with danger. Many birds have gone missing already that we sent to other lands with messages. I cannot risk exposing where you are hiding to the Enemy, and I cannot risk showing just how highly praised you are among the line of Durin. Should this be known and you captured, I fear we would already have lost._

_I despair, where Thorin never did. My brother persevered, stood like a rock in a stream and kept his calm. Unflappable, as always. But I despair, as I have lost much already and now stand to lose all I have left. I will fight, make no mistake, but I cannot know how well I will do so. I will fight because my king bids me, and I will fight because my brother and my sons did. I will defend what they died for. What you fought for._

_Erebor will fight. The line of Durin will make their last great stand. If Sauron wishes to take this Mountain, he will pay dearly for it._

_I only wish I could see you again, but this shall not happen in this world._

_Be safe, Bilbo. And be well._

_All my love,_

_Dís_

**Author's Note:**

> Fic initially inspired by the song "Paradise" by Vanessa Carlton.


End file.
